


An Attempted Robbery

by greenwaterdragon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale trying to be a good angel, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Bookseller Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is annoyed, Metaphysical nonsense, Miracles do not solve everything, Robbery, cocoa, listening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22039984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenwaterdragon/pseuds/greenwaterdragon
Summary: Aziraphale is about to close up his shop for the day, contemplating what he should and should not do as an angel now that he no longer is on Heaven’s radar.When a desperate young man attempts to rob him, he does the only sensible thing and makes him cocoa.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	An Attempted Robbery

**Author's Note:**

> Hi people out there, it has been a while since my last post (because, uh, real life), but here it is, fanfic #2.  
> Criticism and comments highly appreciated, I hope to improve my writing and storytelling :)
> 
> Rated mature to be on the safe side because there is a knife scene, though nobody is physically injured.
> 
> Footnotes can be found below - because apparently, GO fanfiction really needs footnotes.

On a foggy Friday evening a few months after the world did not end, Aziraphale had just taken a solemn stroll through his bookshop and sat down behind his desk. Cars were honking on the streets of Soho, but the traffic sound was muffled by layers of old paper, dusty velvet covers and dark hand-crafted wood. Aziraphale would dutifully wait a few more minutes before he would get up again, turn the sign at the front door to “Closed” and set out to rearrange the very few books that had been picked up by a mere handful of potential customers.

Fortunately, none of today’s visitors had been very insistent upon buying one of the treasures which Aziraphale harbored in his extensive collection. Instead, all of them had left the bookshop empty-handed, yet endowed with either a considerate piece of advice or a witty idea for a handmade gift or an inexplicable streak of luck that would follow them for the rest of the week.

Aziraphale was still torn when it came to the question of whether or not he should use miracles over the course of the day. On the one hand, he no longer had to answer to Heaven, meaning no-one could reprimand or belittle him because of this or that. This or that being: Too frivolous, not really necessary for the big picture, too mundane, not sufficiently focused on raising morale and or faith… In many was, Aziraphale felt like a bird that had been released from its too narrow cage. Finally free to do and roam and bless as he felt was right. This unforeseen freedom was exhilarating, intoxicating… and at the same time, utterly terrifying.

Terrifying, because it harbored the danger of forgetting oneself, over-doing it and drawing unwanted attention. Crowley and him had discussed it extensively during multiple occasions over the last months. They could hardly cut the miracling / willing down to zero – it was against their nature. When Aziraphale saw someone in need, he could not help but feel the urge to… well, to help. He was still an angel, after all - though an angel who had been cast out from Heaven without having Fallen, a unique case to his knowledge, but still – and angels were designed to be good. Even if Heaven had recently proven that it had forgotten its original purpose, Aziraphale had not. Similarly, Crowley relied on his powers in many aspects of daily life. His mysterious ability to will obstacles, pedestrians and stray cats out of the way while driving in his beloved Bentley faster than anyone should was the only thing that kept him from causing an accident every time he so much as sat a food on a gas pedal. Also, he could not quite resist the temptation to _tempt_. He no longer felt obliged to cause real damage or evil (1), but tempting someone into a risky choice that might or might not produce the desired outcome was just too interesting to forsake it.

So they had agreed they would refrain from anything that would be too obvious or perhaps superfluous, they would not actively influence the course of human history, but a small thing here or there hurt nobody. The line was blurry, as Aziraphale was well aware, and he found himself constantly worrying if he might overstep it at some point without realising.

Aziraphale sighed. He gently rubbed at his temple and noticed that he was a bit tired. It was not the first time he had experienced this sensation – he still vividly remembered the night after the nopocalypse – but he had not yet grown quite used to it. It was a side-effect from no longer being a part of Heaven, he had reasoned. Performing miracles had always costed energy, but his energy had quickly been replenished via his direct connection to the Heavenly reservoir. The same was true for Crowley, who had been cut off from accessing Hell’s pool of malign fuel.

Against common belief, Earth did indeed contain quite some ethereal and occult energy from which both an angel and a demon could draw. As all the realms were connected, celestial energy would constantly seep over into the world of humans. If this were not the case, there would be no such things as holy or cursed objects, not to speak of consecrated grounds. These things had to be kickstarted by an angel or demon, but in the end needed to be self-maintaining. All in all, the energy supply was omnipresent, but little. Which meant that recovering took longer than the unlikely pair was used to. Now, Azirapahle had to invest a non-negligible amount of time in recreation to slowly build up his Grace again. Which was not necessarily bad. Well, annoying, but not too bad altogether. Upon Crowley’s suggestion, Aziraphale had even given sleeping a try – he had to admit it was quite efficient indeed, but he still had not gotten used to it and could not bring himself to do it regularly. Step by step, he was warming up to the concept. This evening even more than the weeks before.

Perhaps he had really overdone it a bit over the last few days. It had not seemed much – just a bit here, a bit there,… But it accumulated. Aziraphale internally cataloged and counted all the small things he could recall from the last week. _Too much_ , he realized, disappointed in himself and slightly scared, _far too much. Bugger._ This was harder than he had anticipated.

He sat in silence for a short while, alternating between trying to calm himself down and accusing himself of being foolish and careless, lost in thoughts so that he did not immediately realize some had entered the bookshop. Footsteps approached, a pale face appeared, questioningly peeking around the corner towards the shop owner’s desk. Aziraphale took a moment to emerge from the stream of conflicting notions in which he had been drowning and look up at the young man. His expression quickly went from puzzled to welcoming and a tad forgiving.

“Good evening, Sir. As glad as I am that you have found your way into my shop, I must point out that we are rapidly approaching our closing hour. Can I help you?”

The young man took an unsteady step forward, then paused, as if pondering on how or whether he should proceed. Something manifested itself in his expression, a resolution, determination. Without further warning, the young man dashed forward, pulling a small pocket knife out of his leather jacket and stretched it out in front of him as he stopped in front of Aziraphale’s desk, pointing the small weapon towards the angel’s throat. “Give me all the money you have here! Like, right now!”, the man shouted, a squeaky edge of nervousness in his voice. He was trembling, yet forced himself to proceed.

Aziraphale briefly looked at the knife, then took an audible breath and examined his guest’s face. “My dear boy”, Aziraphale said in a calm and steady voice, not moving from his chair, “I hardly think such a behavior is necessary.”

*****

Aziraphale had granted himself a moment to think about his options.

He did not have any money to speak of stored at his shop right now - well, a tiny amount maybe, just enough to buy some dinner later, but that was about it. Since this place was - at least officially - a bookshop, straightforwardly telling that would not sound credible to the young man, and probably make him angry.

Certainly, Aziraphale could simply conjure up a bunch of paper money from midair. Even though he was tired, he still had enough energy for something as simple as _that_. Might give him a headache, but that was about it.

So far about the easy way. However, giving the troubled young man real money would not benefit him in the long run. He might even consider coming back or worse, going to other places and rob them as well if his strategy turned out to be successful once. Aziraphale could place a simple spell on the money of course. He could time it so that the money would smoulder away in the young man's hands right before his eyes once he got back home. Would mean even more headache for the angel, but would still be doable.

That way, the man would get a memorable demonstration of how fruitless such criminal efforts were. But such supernatural activity would scare him, and fear was never a good way of teaching someone a lesson. Fear lead to paralysis and helplessness, then to frustration, which then lead to anger and started the whole cycle from anew. Additionally, people _talked_ , and Aziraphale really did not need any rumours about a white-haired witchmaster living in a bookshop in Soho (2). That might set all funny kinds of occultists and in the end, even higher forces on his track. No, he really did not need that. Neither did Crowley.

Pondering, Aziraphale studied the young man further. There was this expression in his face, an expression that Aziraphale could recognize anytime and anywhere on this world with ease. Having experienced humankind's hardships and downfalls since the very beginning of time, having witnessed countless destinies and motives, he knew most of the reoccurring patterns. He was not staring in the face of a brutal, heartless criminal. He was looking at someone who felt he had run out of options, who did what he thought was his only choice at the very moment, as much as it disgusted him.

The young man was at serious conflict with himself, it was written all over his face. Aziraphale saw how he had to force himself to proceed as he got unnerved by the shop owner's inactivity and shouted: "Now get the _hell_ on with it!" _Oh, humans_ , Aziraphale thought full of pitty, despite that sharp knife hovering just centimetres before his throat, _such short lifespans. Such restricted perspectives. Such narrow views._ Who was he to blame them for loosing track of the big picture sometimes, if it even happened to him again and again?

"Move, fatty!" The knife got closer to his throat, almost touching it.

Now that was just rude.

"I have the impression", Aziraphale said slowly, now watching the knife in his peripheral vision, "that you are quite unhappy about this situation. Am I correct?" The young man looked at him a tad stumped, but quickly regained a hold on himself.

"What do you care?! Money, 's what I said. Shouldn't be too hard to grasp, should it?"

"You are upset", Aziraphale stated, keeping his tone polite, "would you like some tea?"

*****

Momentarily, Liam could only stare at the middle-aged bookshop owner in utter shock. Not that being offered tea was a new experience for him - he was British, after all - but this was not going as planned. It took him a while to get his breathing back under control and muster up the courage continue intimidating the man.

"No, I don't want bloody tea, I want cash, like _now_!", he spit out.

"My good fellow, there is no need to be so loud. I can hear you perfectly, thank you very much. Speaking up might attract attention, especially since you forgot to close the door on your way in. I rather think we should keep this private conversation to ourselves, would you not agree?"

Liam felt a cool draft on his skin, making him aware that the man was right about the door. Stupid, stupid! He could slap himself for that. He felt himself grow angry, the knife in his hand trembled more than before...

And then the man smiled at him. God in heavens, that bloke had some _nerve_ , that much was sure! Liam had expected fear, confusion, perhaps anger, but definitely not kindness. It left him puzzled as how he should proceed.

"You are upset", the shop owner repeated, his voice still so goddamn calm, "and very, very unhappy. I am so sorry for you, dear boy."

"Be sorry for yourself when I put my knife into you, Mister!", Liam gave himself one more push.

"That would only make you even unhappier", the man elaborated. Coming from anybody else, that sentence would have felt patronising. As the man said it, however, it sounded quite reasonable. He was right, wasn't he? If Liam stabbed that man, he wouldn't close his eyes for a single night in the foreseeable future. But still...

"What makes me happy does not matter! I want - I need that money!"

"There is a good reason for this, I suppose", the man continued in his soothing voice, "A very, very good reason, I can imagine. Perhaps you could tell me all about it while we have some tea? Or now that I think about it, I would actually prefer some cocoa. Would you care for a cuppa?"

Now that was about it. Under no circumstances could Liam stab that guy. He lowered his knife and shoved it back into his pocket. And that was how it came to be that Liam ended up sitting at the bookshop owner's kitchen table, a cup of cocoa in front of him.

Hesitant at first, opening up more bit by bit, he recounted his tale that sent him down this spiral of despair at the bottom of which lay an attempted robbery. He told about how he had dropped out of school and left his family to be with the woman he loved, about how they had struggled to make a living without any education to speak of, about how he had lost his job last week and all hope along with it.

"Then this friend I have... well, not a friend, someone I know, he offered me to be a part of his business, not exactly the proper kind, but it was an option. I needed some money to take a part in it..."

Here, he followed the shop owner's example and took a sip from his cocoa. For the first time in what felt like forever, somebody listened to him without making him feel judged. Not like his teachers who had criticised his academic shortcomings at every possible occasion. Not like his parents, who would point out how much of a disappointment he was whenever they reached out. Not like his former boss, who would yell at him whenever he so much as stirred. It was refreshing and strangely comforting. Of course, there was his girlfriend. But recently, he had started to feel like a burden to her. When talking to her, he could not help but judge himself.

He continued his story. About how his girlfriend had insisted that accepting the offer was a bad idea, and that things would get better. About how she said she would help him find a new job, and even though it would be hard, it would work out in the long run. About how Liam had felt embarrassed, snapped at her and stormed out, determined to get that money, no matter what.

It was a tale like Aziraphale had heard it countless times, in just as many variations, and yet it never ceased to move him. "She texted me earlier", Liam finally told the shop owner, and it felt like a confession even more than everything he had said before, "she told me not to do something stupid. She wants me to make up my mind, to turn down that guy's offer and meet me at the place where we got to know each other. But only at the condition that I turn it down and stay on the 'right path', as she put it."

Aziraphale looked at him silently. Not in a judging way, taking him serious, thinking about what the young man had told him for a while.

"So you walked around town and tried to come up with a way to get the money. And you happened to discover some funny antique bookshop and made a quick decision."

"Yeah, exactly." The angel took another sip of cocoa. "Well, dear boy, now let's talk about your options. About where you could go starting from here."

"But I don't know..."

"You are not alone in the world, you know." Aziraphale leaned back in his chair. There was something dreamy in his eyes, something that spoke of truths old as time itself, truths that he himself had forgotten and recalled just at this very moment.

"There are always more possibilities than you can see. Panic shrinks down your perspective until you lose the overview. That is normal and it's alright. You have to realise that you are not alone..."

A few hours after Liam had attempted to rob a store, he stepped out on the street, a new destination in mind.

*****

Later, when he told Crowley about the encounter with the troubled young man, the demon could barely believe his ears.

“You have been miracling goodies into people’s shopping bags for the last two weeks or so, but then you decided, some bloke pointing his damned knife at you is a good situation to give it a try handling a situation without magic? Are you crazy, Aziraphale?!”

He almost choked on the red wine which the angel had poured him shortly after the demon had sauntered into the bookshop.

“Well, I like to think I have gained quite some introspection into human nature over the last six thousand years, and I felt this was not the time to pull a trick, but to have a good conversation”, Aziraphale elaborated casually, as if discussing his choice of wardrobe, "That man needed guidance, not a miracle."

“Oh, you bloody bastard, you are going to be the end of me one day!”, Crowley groaned and slouched further back into the couch, tilting back his head to emphasize his emotional predicament.

“No need to be so dramatic”, Aziraphale scolded, but not too harshly. He understood Crowley’s distress, of course. Now that they were outcasts, they had to be immensely careful with their corporations. Aziraphale could picture himself waiting in line at one of Heaven’s service counters for a decade or so, just to have someone tell him that he should leave immediately and be on his merry way – without a new body. That would not be fun at all.

“Then don’t do such dramatic things, putting yourself at risk just for trying to be a morale guidance for some desperate dude”, Crowley grumbled and took a sip from his wine. He sat in silence for a while.

“By the way, did he mention the girl’s name?”, Crowley asked.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, surprised by his friend’s sudden curiosity. “Oh yes, he said her name was Abigail. Why do you ask?” He saw Crowley’s eyes widen.

“Strangest thing”, Crowley said, “Met a girl called Abby at a bar yesterday evening, at about the same time you did your heroic thing. Had quite a chat with her. Kept talking about her boyfriend, and how she worried about him getting of track. Gave her some advice, too.”

Aziraphale contemplated that. “Strange indeed”, he answered slowly, “quite a coincidence. Do you think…?”

“Six thousand years on Earth and you still believe in coincidence?”, Crowley mocked.

“Oh, but the likelihood of that… what kind of advice would you have given her?”

“Are you worried we have canceled each other out again?” Crowley grinned broadly.

“I rather like to think we have not”, Aziraphale said, smiling fondly at his partner.

*****

At a bridge leading across the Thames a few kilometres from a bookshop in Soho, a woman was waiting, illuminated by the soft glow of a nearby street lamp. She seemed to be worried, but determined, as if she had decided to believe in a miracle. Then she saw a young man approaching her from the distance. Hesitant at first, then faster, running. Eventually, he reached her, and they fell into each other's arms. "We are gonna make it", he whispered into her ear, "I know we will."

She hugged him even tighter and smiled happily.

***** Footnotes below: *****

(1) Honestly, causing pure malice, disease or destruction just for the sake of it had never been Crowley's style. Whenever his former employer had given him direct and unambiguous order to do so, leaving no or little room for human choice or compensation, Aziraphale knew he had always suffered along with the victims. Throughout history, Aziraphale had repeatedly found the demon hiding away in some shady inn, basking in self-loathing (which he would shrug off and deny, of course). He had developed some bad coping mechanisms over the years. There was a reason after all - rather several reasons - why Crowley either fell silent or snapped whenever someone mentioned that bloody fourteenth century.

(2) Not more than there already were, at least. Living in the same place for two-hundred years and wearing the same outfit for almost the entire time did that. Pretending to be the original owner's great-grandson who just happened to look exactly like all of his predecessors did not make the matter less suspicious. It was a real miracle that no self-proclaimed vampire hunter had tried to hunt him down (yet).


End file.
